Adaptation
It is a golden brown dawn
It is spring, snow is all melt gone
The grass is sprouting with weary patchy green
I wonder how it survived the harsh winter grin?
The grass was covered under snow pile
No air was there underneath the white sheath
How did it breathe?
No sunlight pierced through the soil beneath
That's why the grass looks tired
and it has brown pith
Scientists say this is hibernation
I would say aspiration to live
under the cloud of hardship
I wish I had that adaptation skill
And a place inside your cold heart
to revive
when your apathy destroys
my somber will, my desire to live.
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